


Ben & Rey

by girlwritesthings



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Holidays, Pining, Slow Burn, can you tell i love chicago, dash & lily au, dash and lily, letters on letters on letters, rey and ben are lonely and just want to be loved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28253253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlwritesthings/pseuds/girlwritesthings
Summary: Rey loves Christmas and is looking to findthe onebut what happens when her journal full of dares falls into the hands of Christmas-hating Ben?A Dash & Lily au to fulfill all your fluffy Christmas needs.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Rose Tico, Poe Dameron/Finn, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 30
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my contribution to the [Reylo Hallmark Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/reylohallmark)

****

**BEN**

The bronze lions stand proud and green at the steps of the Art Institute, staring out at Michigan Avenue with a distant coldness that Ben has always loved. As he passes between them he reaches out a hand to pat the base of the lion before ducking his head between the lapels of his jacket to avoid the worst of the brisk Chicago cold.

It might have been a better idea to stay on the CTA, not getting off the brown line until he reached his parents house, but the inevitable tension and passive aggression that awaited him north of the river had propelled him out of his seat when he heard the train approach Adams and Wabash.

An afternoon spent in his favorite place would hopefully be enough of a boost to his mood that it would buoy him through whatever waited for him at home. And maybe if he stayed downtown long enough, he might not even have to see his parents when he arrived home.

Once through the heavy golden doors, Ben bypasses the line of tourists to the left and heads straight to the foot of the marble steps where he has to wait in a short line of people who are handing their tickets to be scanned and allowed entry into the museum. Once he makes it to the front he brandishes his membership card to the ticket taker who lets him through with barely a glance.

He hates most of what comes with his mom’s status in the Chicago social and academic scene but the luminary diamond membership is one of the few exceptions to that.

The holidays have brought an influx of tourists downtown and as much as Ben wants to spend his afternoon in the impressionist wing, he knows it’ll be packed with out of towners.

Instead he veers left at the top of the grand staircase and slips down the hallway that leads to the less popular wings. There aren’t many famous “must see” paintings back here and so it stays fairly quiet, even at peak hours, which is why Ben loves it so much.

He starts in the blue room and makes his way to the corner where two of his favorite paintings live. _The Obelisk_ and _The Landing Place_ hang side by side, painted by French artist Hubert Robert in the 18th century after his travels through Italy. The paintings themselves are by no means the most impressive work in the museum, but Ben has always loved to stare at the crumbling columns and the group of people walking through them, frozen in this rendering and their conversations lost to time.

When Ben was a boy, his father used to bring him to this room and regale him with stories of his travels to Italy and the Mediterranean in his early days as a commercial pilot while Ben stared up at them in wonder. Han promised that one day, when Ben was older, he would take him to Italy and they would explore the streets of Rome and eat their weight in pizza and pasta.

But that day never came.

When Ben finally made it to Italy last year he was alone and tired, having backpacked his way across Europe after his study abroad in London had finished. The only contact he had with his father was the occasional postcards Ben sent from various historical sites that went unanswered.

But despite the broken promises and bitter memories these paintings bring, the little boy in him can’t help but stop and see them every time he comes to the institute.

The room starts to fill up with a guided tour so Ben slips through the arched doorway and down the hall. He would love to catch a glimpse of _Nighthawks_ or the new Warhol exhibit, but the thought of fighting through the crowds is less than ideal.

He’s passing through the “Europe before the 1900s” wing when a flash of color catches his eye and he slips into an empty gallery with deep crimson walls. He recognizes it from trips to the museum with his mother, but Ben usually skips out on it when he comes alone. The room's lack of patrons makes it one of the few places he’ll be able to look without distraction so he makes his way to the bench in the center of the room and sits down.

He pulls out his earbuds, slipping them into his ears and puts on his museum playlist which is mostly just The National, Big Thief, and the occasional Julien Baker.

Unlike most of this wing, every painting in this room bleeds color and warmth and Ben wonders why he never liked this room much before. The walls are filled with palm trees and lush green hills. In one corner a young black boy holds a French horn in his lap, gazing longingly out of the window. Ben reads the placard next to it that describes an enslaved boy taken from Brazil and sent to Vienna to be educated in the best schools while in employment of the late emperor, but ultimately alone. Ben can understand the boy's forlorn expression.

He’s moving to take a closer look at _The Interior of the Palm House_ when he spots something tucked underneath the bench. A small red journal. Ben peers around the room but it’s empty except for him, even the docent is gone from the usual spot. He bends down to pick it up, planning to drop it at the front desk on his way out when he notices a message scrawled across the front in neat, block print.

> _Do you dare?_

Ben glances around but the room is still empty. He opens the journal.

> _I’ve left some clues for you… If you want them, turn the page. If you don’t put the book back under the bench._

Ben scrambles to turn the page.

> _So you’ve chosen to play, a revealing choice… shall we begin?_

Below the message there’s a sketch of a girl sitting on a bench with a cartoonish question mark next to her, holding hands. Ben smiles and continues to read.

> _A coded message: you can decipher it with the right paintings... If you can find them. Your first clue begins a few rooms over. I hope you’re hungry for a snack._

The clearing of a throat causes Ben’s head to snap up. The museum docent is standing in the doorway, peering at him with curiosity. Guilt pricks in Ben’s chest and he scrambles to close the journal as if he’s been caught with something illicit.

“I just found this over there I was just checking to see if it had a name to reach out to… ” Ben gestures back toward the bench as if it’ll grow a mouth and affirm his story. “I’m sorry, I’ll just-”

“If you’re not going to play the game, please place it back where you found it,” the docent interrupts, eyes narrowing on her pale face.

Ben starts, bemused by the sudden shift in the conversation.

“I… Wait, what?” He cocks his head, his confusion growing by the second.

The woman sighs and strides over to where Ben is standing. She’s his height, which is a quite a feat, and he manages to get a glimpse at her ID badge: _G. Phasma_.

“I’m not supposed to say anything,” she continues, gesturing at the journal that Ben has attempted to hide out of sight. “But I know this girl, and if you aren’t going to take this seriously, please just leave the journal for someone else who will.”

He bristles at her words. She doesn’t even _know_ him, and yet she’s assuming he’s some awful person. It cuts deep in a wound opened long ago by his parents' distrust of him. So he straightens up to his full height, and looks her square in the eye.

“I think I can handle it, thanks.”

They stand in silence for a moment, staring each other down until finally she relents, a small smile gracing her lips.

“Okay,” she nods. “You better start now. She didn’t make it easy for you.”

The woman, Phasma, turns to leave but he needs to know something.  
  
“When you say _she_ …” He implores, leaving his sentence dangling between them. But Phasma only smiles wider, disappearing out of the room and down the hall.

Ben turns his attention back to the first clue and sets to work.

_____________

Phasma wasn’t wrong when she said this wouldn’t be easy.

Ben is on the second hour of his scavenger hunt and he doesn’t think anybody knows this museum as intimately as he now does.

The first clue had led him down the hall, just a few rooms over to François Boucher’s painting _Are they thinking about the grape?_ He dutifully wrote down “are” into the blank spaces that were left on the page and searched until he found the small piece of paper tucked under the placard next to the painting.

That clue had led him downstairs to the photography and media wing where he searched every image for the next word which he found in the last word of the title of a Zoe Strauss photograph, _If You Reading This Fuck You_.

As he spent the afternoon scrambling through the museum, Ben felt like he was learning more and more about this mystery girl.

She was not only into art, like him, but had a deep knowledge of the history of it. He could tell the styles she preferred and the mediums she liked based on the clues she gave him. The pieces she sent him to were not the popular ones that attracted the tourists, but rather quieter pieces, down hallways that were less crowded.

He felt connected to her as she brought him through this museum he’d known his whole life, making him look at it with fresh eyes.

And she was funny. Each clue unlocked another piece of her humor and Ben found himself smiling like an idiot more than once.

Eventually he found himself at the second to last clue, an achingly lonely man sketched on ivory paper. Ben dutifully wrote in “lonely” into the riddle and snatched up the last clue tucked behind a nearby sign.

 _“The reason for the season”_ was all it read and Ben doesn’t even hesitate as he sprints back up the grand staircase and down the hall he began this scavenger hunt in.

Pushing his way through the small crowd gathered around the _Virgin and Child_ , he glances down at the journal again, to confirm what he suspected and scratches in the remaining two words.

> _Are you going to be lonely on Christmas?_

There isn’t a final clue or message anywhere near the painting that he can find and so he flips to the next page, searching for answers.

> _If you’ve made it this far, that means you solved the riddle. Or you just skipped this page and are no fun at all. But if you didn’t do that, then leave a message telling me your answer to the question._
> 
> _Leave the journal where you found it, and if I like your answer, I might write back._

Ben wanders back out of the room and towards the cafe, ordering a flat white, the journal still clutched in his hands.

He wants to write back. Wants to ask who this girl is and find out how she feels about _everything_. But he suspects after she reads his answer to her question, she might not want to get to know him in the same way.

But he feels like he already knows this girl, whoever she is, and maybe if she gives him a chance, she’ll feel this thing that’s been growing inside him with every word of hers that he reads.

He pulls a pen out of his backpack and begins to write.

**REY**

Rey’s in class when she gets the text from Phasma that someone found the journal and it takes everything in her to stay seated at her desk. Not that she could rush over to the Art Institute anyway, since Phasma said she would text Rey when he finishes the scavenger hunt.

She had left the journal there a few weeks ago with a promise from Phasma to look out for it and the clues she’d left scattered around the museum. And while a few people had curiously picked it up in that time, nobody had read past the first page.

Except for him.

Phasma wouldn’t describe this mystery boy over text, only saying that he looked about her age, and the curiosity was killing her.

The minute her professor dismisses the class, Rey is up and running out of the room, down the stairs and out onto the street. It’s a cold day in Chicago, and despite having grown up in the Windy City, Rey has yet to learn how to dress appropriately for winter. Or rather, she has yet to learn how to check the weather apps properly before leaving her apartment each morning.

It’s rush hour in the Loop, as businessmen and twenty-something millennials pour out of their office buildings and rush to catch the train. Luckily, Rey is walking away from the train, towards the Art Institute, so she avoids the worst part of this time of day.

She’s crossing Michigan when she feels her phone buzz somewhere deep in her coat pockets and she fumbles around for it, not bothering to pay attention to what’s ahead of her.

Which is how she ends up slamming directly into a random passerby in the crosswalk. His hands dart out to steady her but that doesn’t stop her phone from flying to the ground in the chaos of their collision.

“Oh my god, I’m _so_ sorry,” she stutters, bending down to grab her phone from the street. The screen was already cracked and there doesn’t seem to be any further damage, so it’s a win in her books.

The guy looks to be a bit older than her, with long waves of black hair falling into his hazel brown eyes, a sharp nose, and a pale complexion dotted with freckles. He mumbles something under his breath and then he’s gone before she can even register what happened.

But Rey can’t bring herself to care too much about the rudeness of a stranger: it’s Christmas in Chicago and somebody found the journal.

Once she finally crosses Michigan, Rey sprints up the Art Institute steps, two at a time, and hurtles through the door. There’s barely a line for tickets and within minutes she’s brandishing her school ID to the employee who prints out a ticket for her.

There are _some_ perks to being a student at the School of the Art Institute.

Rey glances down at her phone and skims the message from Phasma before heading up the grand staircase and down the hall to the left.

She finds her in the room where she left the journal which is empty, save Phasma and one young couple on the other end.

“So, tell me about him!” Rey can’t contain her excitement, feeling as if she might burst from it.

Phasma just glares in her usual way, immune to Rey’s cheeriness even after all these years.

The two had met during Rey’s freshman year at SAIC when she had been paired with then senior, Phasma. The two were both art students, although Phasma’s concentration was in sculptures and Rey’s in animation. The unlikely pair had remained friends even after their mentorship ended and Phasma graduated, landing a job at the Institute.

“Here,” she replies, handing Rey the journal. “I didn’t think you’d get here so fast, he _just_ left.”

Rey flips the journal open and rushes past her own doodles and riddles to find what he wrote. He’s completely filled in two pages with his answer and Rey skims the words, unable to take anything in over the buzzing in her ears.

“You didn’t read it, did you?” She asks, glancing up at Phasma who’s turned her attention back to the young couple who have started nuzzling at each other’s necks, immune to their presence.

Phasma’s eyes shoot Rey a look that says _Do you really think I’d do that?_

“As if I’d want to read love letters between straight people. It’s like you don’t even know me.”

Rey laughs, snapping the journal shut despite how badly she wants to sit down with this mystery boy's words. The couple is now fully making out and Phasma has turned her hawkish glare on them and Rey uses the opportunity to say her goodbyes, slipping out of the room while Phasma loudly clears her throat, scaring the couple apart.

If it were up to Rey, she’d just sit down in this dim hallway to read his message. But that feels insufficient for what could very well be a momentous occasion in her life and she wants to attach this memory to a location that feels appropriate.

So she heads down the hall and towards the impressionist wing.

The room is less busy than usual since it’s after 5 p.m. on a weeknight and Rey is able to commandeer a bench across from Monet’s water lilies series, one of her favorite pieces of art in not just this museum, but any.

Once settled, she pulls the journal back out and begins to read.

> _Hi stranger,_
> 
> _I’m not really sure how to begin this so here goes._
> 
> _This is the strangest thing I’ve ever done. I just happened to stop at the museum today on a whim. I don’t usually like to spend time in the Loop. I normally don’t even stop in the room I found this journal in and if fate was something I believed in, I would call it that._
> 
> _I guess I’ll stop rambling and answer your question._
> 
> _Yes, I am going to be lonely on Christmas. I’m lonely every Christmas, maybe that’s why I hate it so much._
> 
> _I’m sorry, I get the feeling you won’t like that. But it’s true. I hate this time of year and I hate Christmas. The weather is miserable and for a few weeks everyone pretends that they care about other people by “giving” in the spirit of the season. But come January, that relentless cheer is gone and everybody goes back to their miserable lives._
> 
> _God, that sounds bleak when I read it back. Sorry. I’ll stop being a Grinch because I’m afraid I might scare you off._
> 
> _I really enjoyed your clues. A lot of those pieces I never really stopped to look at before, it was nice to see this museum in a new way after spending so much time here over the years._
> 
> _If I haven’t completely disgusted you and your Christmas-loving spirit, I thought maybe we could talk. Get to know each other, you know? If you're interested, I want you to leave this journal at Myopic Books in Wicker Park with your response._
> 
> _It’s my favorite book store and it’s so easy to get lost in the shelves and discover something new. Leave this journal next to your favorite book._
> 
> _The docent said she’d text you to pick up the journal today, so how about I plan to pick it up from Myopic tomorrow night? I hope that’s enough time for you to reply and bring it over there._
> 
> _I’m way out of my comfort zone with this, but you intrigue me._
> 
> _I hope to hear from you soon, clue girl._
> 
> _Sincerely, The Grinch_

Rey reads it. And then reads it again. And then a third time for good measure.

The journal lies open in her lap while she gazes up at the water lilies before her, the colors melting together in swirls of purple and green and blue.

He is nothing like she expected.

Then again, she hadn’t expected much.

She absolutely did not expect someone who _hates_ Christmas and talks about it with so much contempt.

But there’s something in his words that she can’t let go of, like the taste of a lemon drop lingering on your tongue even hours later.

Her eyes snag on the part where he says he’s lonely every Christmas and she wonders if maybe he’s more like her than they both think.

She didn’t always love Christmas.

In fact, it wasn’t until she left her foster home and moved downtown for college that the day started to become a source of joy and wonder, rather than sadness.

Something about his letter makes her want to tell him about it.

So she sits in the Monet room, scribbling away her thoughts, hoping he doesn’t mind the lack of cohesive thought.

When she’s done, she closes the journal and stuffs it into her tote bag, heading back through the museum and down the front steps.

Outside it’s grown dark, the inky black sky masked by the skyscrapers towering above, green and red lights flashing at the top.

It’s too late today to head to Wicker Park, by the time she arrives the bookstore will be closing up anyway. So she heads towards State Street, towards her dorm. She’ll take the blue line to Wicker tomorrow, maybe see if Finn wants to make the journey from Logan Square to meet her for coffee on Damen.

Around her, Christmas carols leak out of store fronts and she finds herself humming along.

She can’t help but think that maybe she won’t be lonely this Christmas after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art Referenced:  
> [The Obelisk](https://www.artic.edu/artworks/57049/the-obelisk)  
> [The Landing Place](https://www.artic.edu/artworks/57050/the-landing-place)  
> [](https://www.artic.edu/artworks/57050/the-landing-place)[Portrait of Emmanuel Rio](https://www.artic.edu/artworks/184372/portrait-of-emmanuel-rio)  
> [The Interior of the Palm House](https://www.artic.edu/artworks/144969/the-interior-of-the-palm-house-on-the-pfaueninsel-near-potsdam)  
> [Are They Thinking about the Grape?](https://www.artic.edu/artworks/44742/are-they-thinking-about-the-grape-pensent-ils-au-raisin)  
> [If you reading this fuck you](https://www.artic.edu/artworks/207143/if-you-reading-this-fuck-you)  
> [Lonely Man](https://www.artic.edu/artworks/64345/lonely-man)  
> [Virgin and Child with the Young Saint John the Baptist](https://www.artic.edu/artworks/23972/virgin-and-child-with-the-young-saint-john-the-baptist)  
> [Monet's Lilies](https://www.artic.edu/artworks/16568/water-lilies)  
> as always ash is the reason i get anything posted [and i love her](https://twitter.com/endmebensolo)  
> [I'm on twitter here](https://twitter.com/vicruls)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Slowly, through their exchanges, she begins to piece him together using only the words he gives her._
> 
> Dares on dares on dares on dares (and maybe a little angst, who can say?)

****

**BEN**

Ben’s eyes flutter open as a cacophony of sound erupts down the hallway. It takes him a moment to register that he’s not in his South Loop studio but his childhood bed in his family’s Old Town townhouse.

His mom had texted him on his way home from the Art Institute that she would be spending the weekend at their Hyde Park apartment to finish up her end of the semester grading and that his father had flights all the way up until Christmas.

Which meant Ben would have the house to himself.

The prospect of an empty house used to excite Ben when he was a kid: nobody to tell him what to do, where to be, or what to say. He could eat as many snacks as he wanted and not leave his room for hours if he wanted.

But the excitement had worn off around 13 when he realized his house was just as empty even when his parents were in it, locked in separate rooms across the house, too busy or tired to spend much time with him.

His eyes are fluttering closed again, determined to sleep the morning away when a vacuum roars to life just outside of his bedroom. Despite this house sitting empty for half of the year his mother still employs a full cleaning crew to come in bi-weekly.

He groans, rolling out of bed and padding across the room to his closet. When he moved out after high school he took pretty much everything he owned, but there’s still a few outfits hanging in his closet for the rare occasions he finds himself stranded on the North side, in need of clothes.

He slips on a pair of old jeans, a hoodie, and a flannel, looking like a starter pack for the Midwest winter male.

Once dressed, he slips down to the kitchen and fixes a bowl of cereal while his thoughts drift to the only plan he has for the day.

 _Clue girl_.

She should have the journal by now. Maybe she’s already in Wicker Park, stalking through the shelves of the bookstore to find a spot to leave it.

The thought almost launches him out of his chair and out of the door, determined to catch her in the act.

But reality sets in.

It would take him at least a half hour to make it to Wicker by bus or train. Unless he drags the Falcon out of the garage. But he’s not sure how well it would run after spending the better part of the last decade in a garage, rusting over.

Plus, his dad would probably kill him.

He shakes the idea out of his head. She could arrive at the store at any point during the day and it’s not like he can just hang out on the sidewalk asking every girl who tries to enter the store if they happen to be carrying a red journal.

No, he’ll head there later. Until then, maybe he’ll stay north for the morning.

It’s been awhile since he’s seen or heard from Hux who should be home from UW-Madison for the winter break and Ben is suddenly in the mood to do _something_.

He plucks his phone out of his pocket and shoots a text to Hux inviting him to a morning coffee at La Colombe before his thoughts inevitably find their way back to his mystery girl and what she’s doing on this Friday morning, somewhere in this city.

He wonders what she thought about his message, if she’ll even respond. Maybe she’ll find the journal and it’ll say “ _So sorry, you sound like a miserable and helpless person. It looks like you’ll be alone for another Christmas, goodbye_.”

Honestly, he wouldn’t blame her.

But he’s spent so long living up to people’s worst expectations of who he is and he’s never wanted to prove himself more. The fact that she doesn’t know him or who his family is gives him a chance to start fresh, free of expectations.

He can be anyone he wants to be for her. The idea is a bit daunting.

Maybe for the first time in his life he can be the Ben Solo who is hopeful and open, someone who is worthy of change.

_____________

Myopic Books has never seemed more daunting to Ben than in this moment with shelves upon shelves towering above him, spilling with books.

He’d held out as long as he could, coaxing Hux into gushing about his girlfriend and how they’re handling long distance just to deplete a couple hours of time and a few lattes. But around 1 p.m., Hux had to take off to buy presents for said girlfriend and as much as Ben wanted to find a way to kill time, you couldn’t pay him enough to spend the rest of his afternoon shopping on Michigan Avenue the weekend before Christmas.

Instead he’d used the time to do some of his own Christmas shopping. He’d been avoiding it because his parents are _impossible_ to shop for. Leia had everything she wanted and was prone to extravagant purchases of antiques often. And Han… Well, Han was just impossible to shop for in general.

So, Ben usually bought gag gifts that were definitely more funny to him than his parents. He’s still not sure Han’s forgiven him for the year Ben bought a book of advice on how to be a dad a few years ago. Yeah, it had been pointed but it was _also_ funny.

The shopping in Lincoln Park had killed another hour before he gave up and finally started his trek across town to Wicker Park. The store closed each day at 8 and he figured giving her until 4 p.m. was more than enough time.

And maybe he might accidentally bump into her while she was dropping it off.

But that doesn’t happen because when he finally makes it into the bookstore, it’s empty save for the employees and one elderly man poking around the history and war section.

His first instinct is to start in the art section since he knows she loves it, but a cursory glance at the wall of heavy books doesn’t reveal a small red journal among them so he heads towards the fiction section where he realizes his mistake.

One of the things he loves most about Myopic is how cluttered and overlapping the shelves of books feel. It’s comforting and cozy and feels and looks like how a bookstore _should_ look. But that also means it’s impossible to navigate if you don’t know what you’re looking for.

Normally, Ben loves it for that very reason. He loves to wander deep into the back where you can no longer hear the traffic out on Milwaukee and spend hours exploring the poetry nook or heading upstairs to peruse Sci-Fi.

But that just means it could take him _hours_ to find her book. And the red color of the journal isn’t much help when so many of the books have colorful covers.

He should have had her leave the book at Volumes where they have ⅓ of the inventory and much more open spacing which would have made his search easier. But it’s too late for that now.

So he sets to work, combing the shelves meticulously, his heart stuttering every time his fingers fall on a red book and then thumping back to life when he realizes it’s just another novel.

He doesn’t find it in anywhere between A-J so he decides to move upstairs to where the rest of the fiction is and begins to work backwards from the Z’s.

The minutes tick by as he scans the shelves, doubling back just to double check he didn’t somehow miss the journal. He’s about to head down to the register to ask the employee if she showed up (but he’s not sure that would even be any help) when he spots it.

Finally.

The journal is nestled between _The Secret History_ and _The Goldfinch_ and he burns with curiosity to know which of the two is her favorite.

He slips the journal off the shelf as he slides down to rest his back against books and lets the journal fall open in his lap.

> _Grinch,_
> 
> _I’ll be honest, when I first read your message I almost wanted to drop the journal into the river to be instantly dissolved in its toxic waters, because HOW could someone hate Christmas so much? But after I read your message I started thinking about_ why _I loved this time of year so much._
> 
> _You said you feel lonely every Christmas and so do I. Well, I used to, but not as much recently. Growing up, Christmas wasn’t really a thing in my foster home. It was just another day of the year where we didn’t really get presents or any of the other traditions of the holidays._
> 
> _  
> I would take control of the TV when I could to watch all of the Christmas movies and wonder whether that really existed for people. Because it didn’t for me. And when I moved out for college I realized that this time of year is really what you make it and I’ve decided it’s going to be wonderful._
> 
> _Cheesy and naive, I know. But what’s wrong with a little forced cheer?_
> 
> _And that’s why I’ve decided it’s my new personal mission to get you to at least_ tolerate _Christmas._
> 
> _Since you’ve decided to play my silly little game by picking up the journal in the first place, I thought we could continue it._
> 
> _So, I dare you to go ice skating at Millenium Park to get into the Christmas spirit. Wait until the sun sets so you get the full effect of the dazzling of the Christmas lights and the families skating around you, laughing while the holiday music plays in the background. Trust me on this._
> 
> _You can leave the journal at the skate rentals and I’ll pick it up tomorrow afternoon._
> 
> _I’m on winter break from university so I have plenty of free time to dedicate to this and hopefully you’re not some young professional who is too busy for my game. If that’s the case, I’ll be sad but I understand._
> 
> _For every dare completed, I’ll share a tidbit of information with you and vice versa. You can consider this letter a pre-emptive admission assuming you complete the dare._
> 
> _I’m excited to see how ice skating goes and to hear from you soon._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Cindy Lou Who_
> 
> _P.S. My favorite book is The Secret History._

Ben chuckles at her signature and scrambles to re-read her message back, the ball of anxiety in his chest unfurling as he realizes she doesn’t hate him for hating Christmas. In fact, she understands why he feels the way he does.

She’s a foster child. She loves _The Secret History._ She wants him to go ice-skating.

Ice-skating.

Not that Ben is opposed to the ice-skating itself because he’s not. You don’t grow up in the Midwest without playing at least one season of hockey. Or ten seasons in Ben’s case. But that’s hockey. Not ice-skating with tourists in Millenium Park the weekend before Christmas.

Maybe she is actually mad at him for hating Christmas and this is his punishment.

But some part of him _wants_ to do it, just to make her happy. Plus, she shared something personal with him so he owes her at least this.

He slips the journal into the pocket of his jacket and practically skips down the steps into the main part of the store. The sidewalks on the other side of the windows are bustling with people walking to and from the train and he realizes he inadvertently stayed into rush hour. But that just means the blue line back downtown should be fairly empty. Hopefully.

He starts to formulate his response in his head as he begins his trek to the Damen stop, a lightness in his step that wasn't there before.

**REY**

The Music Box looms before Rey in all its resplendent glory. As a Chicago native she’s heard of the Music Box, even been by it on multiple occasions, but she’s never been _inside_ of it.

Growing up, she didn’t want to beg her foster parents for the money needed for movie tickets and they mostly showed art house films that she wouldn’t have been interested in anyway. Once she moved downtown for school, a trek to Lakeview for a movie seemed excessive especially when the Loop had three AMC’s within walking distance of her.

But this is her dare from the Grinch.

She glances back down at the journal to re-read the end of his message to her.

> _Growing up my parents used to fight a lot. Like a lot. Screaming matches that would go on for hours and could be heard from every room of the house. So as soon as I was old enough to go out on my own I would take the 22 up Clark and walk to the Music Box and spend my days there._
> 
> _They mostly play indie films that you can’t find anywhere else and they have the most amazing events. I’ve never missed a Rocky Horror Picture Show in October._
> 
> _Now that I live and go to school on the South Side, I don’t get up to the theater as often as I’d like but it’s still one of my favorite places._

He’d dared her to see whatever is playing and then walk up the street to the Dairy Queen and order a blizzard. Apparently, he's bought a blizzard from that Dairy Queen after every movie he’s seen at the Music Box since he was 13.

So she does it.

She watches a foreign language film that already has Oscars buzz and she actually enjoys it. And then there’s the theater itself, which is a work of art, the walls are a sandy gold with high ceilings and columns at the top. There’s even a red curtain that sweeps back at the start of the movie.

Rey can understand why he loves it so much here.

After, she heads up the street and orders a peppermint hot cocoa blizzard, eating it at the table next to the window so she can watch the people outside while she writes her message back.

Maybe it’s the movie or maybe it’s watching the families bustling around her at Dairy Queen but she’s feeling introspective. So leaves it all on the page.

She tells him about how her parents abandoned her long before she could even memorize their faces which sent her bouncing around foster homes until she ended up with a nice enough family in Lincoln Square where she stayed until she graduated high school. She tells him about how the only way she could escape the chaos of her foster siblings was to take refuge in the unfinished basement with a sketchbook she stole from the art room at school.

That was how she learned she loved to draw, and that she was even good at it.

She tells him about her art, something she talks about all day every day at school but it’s different with him. He’s not a pretentious art snob that’s looking to get the approval of the professor by putting down everyone else’s work to make theirs look better. She can actually use the cliches that she normally avoids when talking about her art because she knows he won’t judge.

Once her blizzard is gone she heads to the Southport brown line stop where she leaves the journal in the spot he described before hopping on the next Southbound train to the Loop.

And their game continues.

On Sunday she picks up the journal from the Merch Mart after she’d dared him to watch the Nutcracker scenes they’d be projecting onto the Merch. He told her that he studies English with a creative writing concentration and that his dream is to write a classic American novel but his parents think he should go into academia, like his mother.

He dares her to go to the Garfield Park Observatory where she sits next to the pond and sketches the way the leaves envelop her body. She confesses that as much as she loves her art, she’s afraid she’s either going to have to sell out and work for some young, hip advertising firm or stay in school to get her Masters to be able to teach.

She finds herself able to talk to him about things she’s either too embarrassed to admit to her friends or would never interest them. But her Grinch not only wants to talk, he understands.

Slowly, through their exchanges, she begins to piece him together using only the words he gives her.

She learns that he’s quiet and reflective. Most of the dares he gives her leave her alone with her thoughts.

She knows that his parents are still married but often fight, although less than when he was little. He grew up in Chicago, like her, and doesn’t have any desire to leave despite the bitter memories that haunt them both on the North side.

She learns what books he loves, what filmmakers he hates, and the stories he wants to tell.

And with every word she feels that much more connected to him.

It scares her.

When she left the journal at the Art Institute she had been hoping for exactly this: a boy her age who is smart, and funny, and interesting. Someone she might be able to talk to and be friends with.

Maybe one day fall in love with, as silly as that sounds.

But now he’s here and with every dare and admission she feels as if the web they’ve woven together has become something that’ll be difficult to untangle herself from as more time passes.

But she doesn’t voice these concerns to him, just lets these thoughts swirl around her head as she traipises through the city, drunk on his words and the Christmas cheer all around.

**BEN**

It’s three days before Christmas and his mystery girl has once again sent him into the belly of the beast.

The Lincoln Park Zoo Lights.

A few entries ago he’d asked her if she was trying to kill him, sending him to the most tourist and family filled spots in Chicago and she’d promised she wasn’t. She just wanted him to love Christmas.

But this feels personal.

She even chose the _free_ night and crowds of families and couples stream around him, bumping into him as they go.

Her dare this time had included extra instructions: watch the faces of the people looking at the lights.

So he does.

He watches the children run frantically from display to display with no regard for their surroundings. He watches the parents chase after them, gripping their hot chocolate close to their chest as they go. He watches the young couples pose for photos in the middle of the arches, shooing away anyone who tries to pass through and risk ruining their photo.

And he hates it.

He hates the noise and the chaos and the cold.

But she asked him to watch their faces so he tries again, focusing on a young couple and their son who looks to be about three-years-old.

The boy is gazing in wonder at the Reindeer light display that flickers to emulate movement, his chubby fists clutching his scarf as he giggles excitedly.

The father is crouched next to the boy, pointing out each reindeer and naming them for the boy while the mother stands a few feet away, grinning ear to ear as she snaps photos not of the display, but of her family.

Across the pathway an elderly couple walks hand in hand towards the zeba display. Ben catches snippets of their conversation as they discuss being able to bring the great grandkids next year, adding onto their decades long tradition of visiting the zoo.

He walks through the zoo for the next hour, not watching the lights, but the people like clue girl asked.

And he starts to get it.

It’s impossible to _not_ be affected a little by the excitement swirling through the air. The cynical part of him wants to dismiss their joy as vapid and fleeting and he wonders when he started to doubt the idea that people might actually be capable of being happy.

The young family passes by him again near the gazebo but the toddler is asleep now, nestled into his father’s arms as he snores.

He wonders why his family stopped coming to the zoo lights.

Like all Chicagoans, this was once of the traditions of the Organa-Solos, hot chocolate and roasted nuts included.

He remembers his mom bundling him up in his snow pants and boots, his fingers stuffed in a pair of gloves that made it hard for him to hold anything. His father would carry Ben on his shoulders as they walked the few short blocks to the zoo and Ben would pull at Han’s hair with excitement when he finally saw the lights filtering through the trees.

He probably fell asleep in Han’s arms like this little boy. Leia probably has a whole box full of photos of them standing in this very spot over the years as he grew.

He gets lost in the hazy memories of the past and the cheeriness around him for a moment and he feels the need to document this moment somehow so he pulls out the journal. The Christmas displays provide enough light for him to write his response in the journal, more honest and vulnerable than he’s ever been with his mystery girl. Or with anyone, really.

He writes three pages, writes until he can get this feeling out of him and onto the page permanently. He doesn’t even realize his eyes are wet until he feels a tear freeze on his cheek.

It startles him out of his reverie and he uses a gloved hand to dry his face. Before he can examine the _why_ too closely he feels his phone vibrate in his jeans and he bites the tip of his glove so he can pull it off and grab it out of his pocket.

His mother’s photo lights up the screen.

Speak of the devil.

“Hello?” He sniffles a little and hopes she doesn’t notice. In his defense, it _is_ freezing.

“Ben, sweetie, where are you?”

Ben stands, tossing the journal and pen back into his backpack as he sets off towards the zoo gates.

“Just out,” he replies, feeling his walls shooting back up, his nostalgia already disappearing.

“Oh,” she replies. Her voice sounds distant and he can tell he’s on speaker phone, probably while she critiques essays from the other end of her desk. “I was just calling to check in.”

Ben reaches the gates and slips out and away from the crowd streaming in.

“I’m fine, mom,” he says.

“That’s good, good,” she answers distractedly, the scratch of a pen audible in his ear. “Sorry, I haven’t been home the last few days, it’s been such a crazy semester and I’ve been up to my ears in essays and references for students going to grad school. Oh, and planning the holiday party for the department…”

She rambles on in his ear, talking about professors he’s known since he was in diapers and students that affectionately call her “mom” like she doesn’t already have a son at home to call her that.

The call lasts through the length of his walk home, their home, and he lets her talk herself dry and he doesn’t interrupt. Just “mhm’s” and “yeahs” during her pauses until she scolds him for distracting her from her grading and clicking off with a short “I love you” and then she’s gone.

And he’s alone in their house wishing for the first time in a long time that his mom was here with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I miss Christmas in Chicago?
> 
> [I'm on twitter here](https://twitter.com/vicruls)


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